


Play Dead

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Biting, Blood As Lube, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Episode: S01E01 The Rules of the Beast, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Pain Kink, The Rules of the Beast, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22530217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: It takes Jonathan out of himself for an instant, head spinning with this turn of events, but then, as has become his custom, Dracula shatters all of that by ordering, "Undress." The word hits the air between them as precipitously as a tempest breaking.(Or, that AU where Jonathan figures it out in a couple of days, confronts the Count, and gets more than he ever bargained for.)
Relationships: Count Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Comments: 20
Kudos: 222





	Play Dead

The confines of Castle Dracula become overwhelming to his mind, to his very thoughts, on the third evening, having gotten lost as he has a record six times that day alone, or so he believes. Time passes strangely here. His wits not about him as often as they should be. Jonathan endeavours not to despair.

Dinner is stilted. As a general rule, being held captive rarely leads to a state where one is amenable to idle mealtime conversation. The Count appears in good spirits, flushed and very obviously younger-looking, while Jonathan's neck itches on the right side and his mouth is dry regardless of however many glasses of wine he refills for himself. He's on his third, but that's hardly surprising given he's been a prisoner for three nights now and the rigours of a London gentleman now seem but flights of fancy.

Why the Count chooses to accompany him for his meals, at least the ones occurring after dusk, while abstaining from actual food himself, is a mystery Jonathan suspects he won't much like the solution to. He's come to appreciate his previous lack of understanding regarding certain topics in the little time he has spent mulling over his current circumstances. After all, getting lost so many times keeping count requires more than one set of hands means he's given up on keeping the number of attempts straight farther back than the current day, thus leaving his mind free to wander and... wonder.

What use could be derived from skewering the neck on a slumbering English gentleman? What is there to be gained by this? Youth, maybe. An English twist of the tongue, as unlikely as that may sound to the average, mentally-sound individual. Part of Jonathan rebels at the very notion, but his survival may depend on his frankly entertaining the unsound.

And, finally, a third question: What does the Count's cup contain, if not wine?

Pondering these three questions has left Jonathan with very little in the way of appetite. The wine suffices. However much he might be aware he needs nourishment to continue seeking a way out, his body seems to have given up on it unless forced to ingest it. Persuading his mind to accept it has carried him thus far, but he has found that thinking his way through the puzzles set by the Count uses up too much mental energy to leave any for whatever else his body might require. He's thankful breathing comes naturally.

"Shall you not tell me of London anymore?" the Count presses. It may be a trick of the candlelight, but Jonathan imagines for an instant that he grows younger by the minute in his presence, unhurriedly sipping as he does from his goblet before placing it back down at the edge of the table. But that notion is... ludicrous. Simply absurd.

Whatever vile plans the man might have, Jonathan has begun to believe they relate in some way to England and London specifically as more than the city where he plans to reside. He bites his tongue to quell any utterances which may fall unbidden in his state of restlessness. He must betray his thoughts in some way, for the Count cocks his head and wordlessly fingers the rim of his cup as a man with a great deal to ponder upon receiving some piece of news of the highest import, even though neither has spoken after the Count's request of more tales of London which Jonathan silently denied him. Then, without any telegraphing of his impending actions, the Count stands, imposing even in a transient state of movement.

Stepping from behind the table, the Count lingers but for a second to pick up his goblet before making his way slowly, calculatedly, towards Jonathan, stopping to hover over his form.

Something in his visage must embolden Jonathan to utter, "I know what you are doing." His neck bends at an awkward angle as he sits looking up at the Count, the scar where neck meets shoulder beginning to throb persistently. But standing seems impossible. Moving a muscle other than those required to speak unfeasible. His mind is working in ways it has yet not been able to, but a spark has been ignited.

The Count's laugh is brief, a spark gone out too quick in it. "And what, pray tell, am I doing?"

That is when Jonathan finds it within himself to rise, to stand tall. He cannot imagine how the words are going to come out on their own, but he pushes them out regardless. "You are— You are— _sir_ —a _beast_ , consuming my blood for your vile purposes." He's panting by the end, as if having run the length of the castle and back.

For his part, Dracula gazes into his eyes unblinkingly for a long moment, the calm before a storm, before a flood. But Jonathan does have to blink, and when he does, the Count is already breaching the foot of space between them, shoving him back against the table and pushing aside the remains of Jonathan's dinner, plates and utensils flying across it. From the corner of his eye, Jonathan observes shards raining onto the flagstones where his wine glass crashes onto the floor. Then the Count—stops. Moves back. Leaves Jonathan to right himself, steady his breathing. Waits him out, though he does so by seating himself carelessly.

The Count says, consideringly, "My dearest Jonathan, you are so... right. Please receive my sincerest apologies." His head dips, forehead furrowed as if genuinely contrite.

It takes Jonathan out of himself for an instant, head spinning with this turn of events, but then, as has become his custom, Dracula shatters all of that by ordering, "Undress." The word hits the air between them as precipitously as a tempest breaking.

Jonathan must have misheard. But. No, he did not. The Count settles himself more comfortably in Jonathan's vacated seat, arms crossing over his chest, head tilted expectantly. The alternative is there, floating between them: his neck ruptured if the Count were to _miscalculate_ , intentionally so, or Jonathan could willingly offer up another part of his body to give him what he wants. He pales. But he knows now he will give in, if only to buy himself another night, another dawn free to wander the corridors of the castle in search of an exit.

The buttons on his waistcoat are slippery all of a sudden. Unwieldy. He battles them until they give in to his will, and his waistcoat is thus off. He places it by his hip upon the table. His shirt becomes untucked next by virtue of his trembling fingers obeying his orders through instinct rather than immediate orders. He is dazed. He cannot comprehend how he unfastens both his shirt and his trousers to take both off his person without his hands failing him completely. He must have taken his socks and shoes off somewhere in there as well, if only because he could not have divested himself of his own trousers otherwise.

Finally his smallclothes fall haphazardly on top of his outer layers. He stands leaning against the table. He offers himself up for inspection.

The Count's eyes travel upon exposed skin without shame. Jonathan flushes, modesty rearing its uninvited head to elicit physical reactions he does not want to expose to his captor. Thoughts of Mina surface with them, but he endeavours to quell them as roaming eyes finally zero in on Jonathan's femoral artery at the junction of thigh and groin. Jonathan knows that's where the Count will drink his fill, perhaps for the last time, perhaps not if he deems himself satisfied with this trade. It is a gamble.

He has surely guessed his intentions correctly, for when he lifts his eyes the Count is already smiling a smile which appears to Jonathan to be bigger somehow than his usual. Too many teeth. He realises swiftly that is, in fact, the case, but it's too late, Dracula already leaning in, breaching the space between them to mouth at the skin located precisely where Jonathan knows the artery to be. The shock of having another's mouth on him, on any part of him, is but part of it. No one has ever, of course. But this lasts only the minute length of time it takes sharp teeth to worry at his groin. Then Jonathan sweats, even though the night is the chilliest it has been since his arrival; he trembles, so much so that the Count has to grip harshly at his hip bones, palms handling him roughly. Finally, teeth, a pair, sharply penetrate his skin seeking the liquid beneath.

Jonathan's head snaps upwards, moan muffled at the base of his throat, the shout coming on its heels stoppered as well, eyes unstaring at the ceiling above them. His fingers scramble at the edges of the mahogany table, nails skating upon it. His breathing feels as if it will never settle again. Then Dracula begins to _suck_.

He twitches like prey caught in a giant bird's beak, skin and flesh threatening to rip from bone and sinews should he move but a muscle wrongly. He's caught. It matters not that it lasts but minutes, hardly more than a couple. Jonathan's toes curl against the flagstones and his lungs refuse to work properly. Parallel with the Count's face, his cock rises. Pinching his own thigh to prevent his body's unnatural actions does not yield the desired results. Jonathan's cock is half-hard, but the tip is wet already and protruding from the skin there. The pain takes over his mind, but it's a lush ache rather than a debilitating one. It is a discovery he never wanted to make about himself.

His captor is finished soon, not nearly soon enough, teeth retracting with the same sharpness with which they first plunged in, his mouth moving the first inch away from wrecked skin. He licks the twin holes clean and closed in his retreat. With any luck, there will be only minimal scarring, as long as the holes do not become... reopened. Jonathan shivers violently at the notion that this could occur at a later stage, could happen _again_.

But the Count is not done just yet. He reaches for his goblet, which Jonathan notices is now empty, to spit out the excess, although it would be better described as the excess flowing from his mouth into the cup, as if it has always wanted to fill that receptacle. He fingers the dribbles on his chin and what else remains on his face into his mouth, sucking his fingers clean, neatly finishing his meal.

Could this be it? Jonathan inhales harshly at the notion, and the Count notices. He notices _other things_ as well.

"What's this?" he asks, positively gleeful.

Jonathan wants to hide. His mouth tastes earth. Bitter, bitter earth. The ground they step on: nourishing, worm-infested, dark as night.

He has no words to reply. No words are necessary. The Count smiles and Jonathan licks his lips.

When he ducks back in, this time to mouth at the tip of his cock, Jonathan hisses. It's not anything like pain. It's unlike anything he has ever experienced before. Swiftly enough, the Count's mouth engulfs him, and he believes this must be what it is like to be consumed, more so than when his blood was being sucked from his body.

He now understands why men seek this out, why they seek out women who will perform such an act, why he might turn to other men. Jonathan _understands_. The filth of it barely registers. Nothing much registers when a clever tongue licks down to the spot underneath the head to press there. Then he's being sucked back down, his length stretching at the corners of the Count's mouth, a tight fit Jonathan can feel in his balls as they throb and in his thighs as the impulse to thrust in and keep thrusting rises to the surface. He breathes deeply instead, and lets the Count have his way, anything he wants as long as this heat within him will finally be quenched.

Fingers are thick at his hole. Somehow, without his noticing, they dipped lower and lower still from their place by his hip bones to reach for him _there_ , and now it is too late to move away, to deny their presence. They feel slick, and Jonathan has reason to believe the slickness is his own blood. They press and prod and explore to their heart's content before the first breaches him, merely the tip at first, then more, much more, the entire digit, delving inside him, the rim of his hole on fire and twitching around the intrusion. The Count sucks more of his cock inside his mouth, the sensitive cockhead pressing into the flesh at the inside of his cheek. Jonathan wants to shout. He moans pitifully from somewhere deep in his throat instead.

The first finger fucks him for several minutes, the glide easier with each thrust back in. The second digit joins the first as Dracula's mouth leaves his cock to lick and then suck at his balls. Jonathan never knew of such an act, but, well, how could he when he has yet to experience anything of this sort at all. Certain acts are not spoken of, it seems, only to be known by those who have the opportunity to experience them. But that line of thinking dies down soon enough as Dracula swallows him back down, now vigorously fucking him with two fingers, much thicker than Jonathan's own, almost like a slim cock might fuck him, not that Jonathan would care for that, not at all, not ever.

It lasts too little and too long, both at the same time. Despite his aching groin where the Count bit at him, despite the lateness of the night and his muddled thoughts, Jonathan believes he could stay like this until dawn reaches them. Alas, his body does not agree.

His hole clenches. He spills violently into the Count's waiting mouth, and with barely seeing eyes he watches him swallow Jonathan's mess down, surely to join Jonathan's blood inside his own body. Jonathan can only pant and moan and whine for more like he imagines a little harlot would. He doesn't think of Mina then, of what their wedding night would have been like had he come to it pure, because he knows it would be but a footnote to what the Count has succeeded in claiming from him this night of nights.

Afterwards, his body must betray him, ultimately, for his mind is blank, his eyes unseeing, and he wakes in his rooms, the ones provided to him by Dracula upon his arrival, groggy and parched. The room is darkened but for a candle burning in a corner. His head turns towards the light, only to immediately land upon the Count, casually seated by the window, a smirk already adorning his features, which are now younger still, his hair dark and lush, his cheek rosy. Jonathan's body rebels once more, but this time he leaves the bed without thought, jumping on shaky legs to stand as well he can, noticing all the while he might be barefoot but is somehow wearing his shirtsleeves and trousers.

Breathless, barely able to hold the weight of his own head steadily on his shoulders after what appears to be a full day of slumber, dawn until dusk, he utters the question, "What do you want?" His feet threaten to give out on him all the while.

And Dracula, he. He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> My first multichaptered story for this silly little series. Comments and kudos are **greatly appreciated**. Please let me know if you like the direction in which this is going, because I do. XD
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/). It's a fun time.


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